Preaching to the Choir
by Britani Gael
Summary: Coda to 3x4; Sam and Dean discuss what the demon really meant.


**Title**: Preaching to the Choir

**Author**: Brittany

**Fandom**: Supernatural

* * *

Dean isn't thinking about much of anything when he hits Sam, least of all the _why_ of the matter. He doesn't want to injure his brother or see him bleed even though both of those things are happening—kind of in slow motion, freaky—but he wants to hurt him. Sam staggers backwards, and Dean's hit with the vague realization that this sort of thing just isn't satisfying anymore.

"Dean!" Sam shouts, and he's the guy that spits on the ground whenever he feels like it but Dean guesses he's got to do something to get the blood out of his mouth. "Dean, what the fuck!"

Dean rubs his hand and—wait, let's back up.

Two minutes earlier.

Sam's sagging against the wall like he's just been punched in the face—metaphorically, because that hasn't really happened yet—staring at Dean with the widest eyes he can manage before he absolutely has to blink.

"Wh—what?" he says. He can't think of anything else to say to the guy standing in front of him, a guy so different from his big brother that he's not even sure they're the same person anymore. He pushes off the wall, rubbing his temples. "You believed, you listened to a—"

Dean shrugs, and he's trying hard to laugh. Instead he sounds like he's got asthma. "Yeah, well, she was hot."

Sam narrows his eyes, and he feels his lips pull back in a sneer before he can stop them. Or even decide that he wants to. "Good thing I_shot_ her, then, before she could…" He stops there.

He can't think of anything she could have done that was worse.

And it's too late anyways, because Dean's got a smile on his face and the fingers of his right hand are curling into a fist. Sam knows what's coming, he doesn't move to stop it, he waits for—hold on.

* * *

Back up again, three minutes before that.

"Right," Sam says, such a Goddamn know it all, "right, because we know _so_ much about the situation right now—"

Dean raises his hand, cutting off an argument he already knew by heart. "Dude, Sam, my situation isn't the only one we should be worrying about right now, okay?"

Sam blinks, thrown by them going off script, and his indignation slides off his face until all that's left is a little confusion, and a touch of anger. "What are you talking about?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. He does that a lot, gives him time to think, and then he gives Sam a Very Serious Look. "You know," he says.

Sam's brow furrows, and he shakes his head sharply. "No," he says quickly, "Dean, that's over, it ended with Yellow Eyes." He's still shaking his head, like he's got magic powers—ha ha—that'll make that true if he keeps doing that.

"Is it?" Dean asks the question like he wants to know, and he really really does.

"Of course it is!" Sam's shouting now, waving his arms just a little bit. "Just what the hell is wrong with you lately?! The powers, the visions, they're all gone!"

Dean snorts, and he doesn't know what he's doing, he doesn't want to think about it or talk about it but here he is yelling it, saying, "The army didn't go away, Sam! Your army. We're fighting it every freaking day, or did you not—

"That's not—" Sam stops like someone's thrown the emergency brakes. "Who have you been talking to?" he asks. His voice gets higher when he demands, "What do you know that I don't?"

"What do you know Lucifer?" Dean asks, his voice is a few beats faster than his normal speaking speed and he knows if he stops there he's never going to start again. "Guess what, he's like freaking Jesus, and he…"

Sam opens his mouth, shuts it, and hell, he's not going to like what's coming, but here it—Okay.

* * *

Back to the beginning.

"Dean, what the fuck!"

Dean rubs his hand and just looks at him, not moving to speak or yell or hit him again or say anything at all, and Sam has no idea what to do. He's just staring, and God, he looks scared. The kind of scared that makes you want to tap on his shoulder and make sure he's okay, but Sam's staying the hell back.

Because Dean is violent and needy and lost and damnit, his punches hurt.

Sam reaches up and touches his face. It's tender and it's going to bruise for sure. "Dean?"

Dean turns away. "Sammy," he says. "I am so fucking sorry."

Sam doesn't ask the obvious question, because the list of things Dean might be sorry for is so long and it'll only hurt to remind them both of that. He swallows the blood that's still in his mouth and looks at the back of Dean's jacket. "Dean, you know…" He sighs. "You don't have to be."


End file.
